


Rainstorms and Waves

by Vagabond



Series: Stories from the Cottage in South Downs [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blasphemy, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Soft Boys, South Downs Cottage (Good Omens), god is my wingman, mostly on the part of me for trying to write a personification of god, wing-ethereal-being, wingwoman?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-09
Updated: 2019-07-09
Packaged: 2020-06-25 00:35:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19734808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vagabond/pseuds/Vagabond
Summary: After the apocalypse, an angel and a demon try to figure out what it means to settle and it requires a little divine intervention.





	Rainstorms and Waves

**Author's Note:**

> I've been in love with Good Omens since I was a wee little thing in middle school. It is one of those books I get a hankering for every few years and pick up to read and return to old friends. Despite this, I've never written fic. Read a lot, yes, but never _written_ anything for Good Omens. But since the revival of the fandom thanks to the television adaptation, I've been wildly inspired by all the beautiful things people have created. So here's my small little contribution to that, scratching a divine itch I've had ever since God didn't answer Aziraphale's call.
> 
> Unbeta'ed because I'm a weanie and also impatient.
> 
> **EDIT:** I'm in awe that the wonderful [senseofenterprise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_boleyn_treatment/pseuds/senseofenterprise) loved this enough to make it into a Podfic. You can listen to it [HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20691188).

By all accounts it is a lovely day.

Aziraphale nipped out early in the morning to run errands, leaving his demon ( _his_ demon - the thought makes him smile) lounging about in bed like the slothful serpent he is. It was difficult to leave, of course. It always is, because Crowley whines and cajoles and uses those devilish fingers of his to coax Aziraphale into joining him just a bit longer. 

But there’s things to do, the sun is shining in London, and he has a mind to make dinner the human way tonight as a special treat. Or at least he hopes it will be a special treat because the last time they tried to cook the sauce burned and the toaster oven rebelled and they ended up ordering thai takeout after miracling away the mess. 

Practice makes perfect, though, and Aziraphale is determined this time to do it right. He’s been reading all sorts of magazines about it, the sort that one idly leafs through while waiting at the check-out counter before deciding ‘no, no, I can just look this up online there’s no point in purchasing’ except Aziraphale isn’t necessarily a fan of online publications. Why bother when you can have the paper-and-ink in your hands, pages crinkling, and that unique printed smell that is oh-so wonderful? 

So he and the other housewives in line pick up magazines of that sort, with happy families on the front sitting in front of professionally photographed dishes that never look like the real deal. And he reads them, because he’d like to figure out this cooking thing if only for the sake of impressing Crowley who groans every time he brings home a new pan or baking dish.

As part of his plan he’s stopped off at a fresh market to purchase some herbs. Crowley will grumble about those, too, no doubt, claiming if they’d finally make a move on the cottage in South Downs like he’s been wanting then they could have their own herb garden. Herbs, according to him, are a bit more smarmy than their houseplant cousins and can be a pain to threaten into behaving but when they do, it is worth it. 

But they don’t, and they won’t, at least not until Aziraphale overcomes the uneasy feeling that starts in his belly and ends in his throat when he thinks about _settling_. So he buys herbs, and he stops at his favorite bakery and buys a lovely baguette, and he goes about his day purchasing the bits and pieces he needs to make a wonderful, robust spaghetti that the magazines assure is so easy even a child could do it. 

And, well, Aziraphale has 6000 some odd years on a child. He should be able to handle it. 

Since it is a lovely day he decides to take the long way back to the bookshop with a mind to stop at Crowley’s favorite coffee place to bring him back an indulgence. The long way includes walking through a wee park that almost doesn’t deserve the designation. It is mostly a bunch of trees doing their best to grow in thin soil with a few benches under them, the whole thing sandwiched between a couple main streets. 

Aziraphale enjoys walking through it because he likes to give the skinny trees a kind little pat on the bark and a few words of encouragement that may or may not make the soil a little deeper every time, converting the small city park into something a bit more natural. The trees sway in the breeze and he smiles at them. He’s about to get on his way when something catches his eye. Or perhaps it is a some _one_. 

He pauses in the middle of the path and furrows his brow. There’s a figure sitting on one of the park benches and he realizes it is the _only_ figure in the park. There are people outside of it, walking down the sidewalk across the street, and life in the city continues on even as Aziraphale’s whole world narrows to a single point. 

She’s beautiful, really, and inconspicuous, with skin like dark chocolate and golden eyes and tightly braided black hair. The sun shines directly on Her, ignoring the leaves of the trees above and She positively glows. 

Aziraphale supposes it is appropriate, considering who She is. Something inside of him pulls instinctively toward Her even though his feet don’t move. He _yearns_ , that spark inside of him, that connection to the divine is leaping about in a room full of trampolines like a child whose indulged in a bit too much sugar and perhaps a touch of cocaine. 

She’s sipping coffee from the very cafe Aziraphale planned to go to and he’s not sure what to make of that. He’s not sure what to make of any of this, really. Here She is, the Almighty in the flesh, visiting earth like Aziraphale visited Paris in the midst of a revolution all those years ago for the sake of good crepes. He doubts She came for the coffee, though.

He seriously considers backing up and exiting the park. 

Of course She chooses that moment to look up at him and smile. It is a gentle thing, the kind curve of Her lips beckoning him forward. His feet move even though he’s not yet sure he wants them to and he approaches the bench. Her eyes are like liquid gold this close, attempting at human-ish but he knows how to look past the glamours and see the endless depths of them. They remind him a bit of Crowley’s eyes, though they lack that beloved slit pupil. 

“L-lord,” he stutters out, clutching the baguette to his chest as if he fears that’s what She’s here for, and not to send him into a pit of sulfur for his part in the whole Apocalypse-that-wasn’t. “Fancy seeing You here, in Soho of all places. Ah, well, er, lovely to see You anyway. Popped in for some coffee, hm? Quite good, that place. One of our favorites. Er, and by that I mean Crowley’s favorite. They have lovely coffee, though I’m not a fan, and their tea leaves a lot to be desired.” 

Her smile widens, “Aziraphale, sit, please.” She pats the bench beside her. 

He wonders, briefly, if he could outrun the Almighty Herself in a footrace. Could he get back to the bookshop, back to Crowley, in time to say farewell? To wish him the best and perhaps they could meet up in Hell and Crowley could help him adjust to his new life as a demon. _Wouldn’t be much of an adjustment_ , Crowley will likely say with that wonderfully smug look of his. _Bit of a devil already, aren’t you?_ Perhaps Falling won’t be so terrible. 

“Am - ah, well, rather, it is time?” Aziraphale asks as he sits and resists the urge to begin picking at the tip of the baguette sticking out of the paper bag it is in. “Has it all finally caught up with me? I knew I couldn’t outrun it for long. Or I didn’t know, specifically, but I wondered. Worried. Heaven eventually catches up, doesn’t it? Ha. Bit cross, after thwarting the end of the world and the big war and all that.” 

He taps his feet against the cement beneath him and tries not to fidget too terribly much. She rests a hand against his knee and the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding - Angels don’t need to breathe, after all - releases in a heavy sigh as his body stills. Her grace flows through him, a soft, warm divinity that is familiar but altogether more potent than he’s used to. Aziraphale closes his eyes and for the first time since the Apocalypse-that-didn’t-happen _relaxes_. 

“Ah.” He reaches out to shyly rest his hand over Hers and ducks his head, his bag resting on the bench beside him. Energy crackles beneath his fingertips and he wonders what it is like to fit all of that omnipotent, omnipresent energy into an average human package. It is difficult enough for him at times, a mere principality, to shove his divine form into his beloved vessel. There’s an awful lot of wings and eyes to manage, after all. 

They’re quiet for a while, the only exchange the comforting energy flowing from where their hands meet. A pigeon flutters down from a nearby tree and hops curiously close, cooing, and that seems to break the calm as She smiles widely and it is all teeth and blinding glory as She reaches down and offers a hand, now full of birdseed, to the creature that eagerly hops closer and begins to peck. 

A few more join their companion, coming down from trees and nearby power lines and somehow there’s enough for all of them. 

“Now, now,” She chides as one of the birds nips at another, wagging Her finger at it, “be kind. There’s enough.” As if to prove the point, She scatters bird seed along the sidewalk and the pigeons go at it while She leans back.

“I called You,” Aziraphale says after a moment, wringing his hands in his lap as he grapples with the shadows that have clung to him since his conversation with the Metatron. “Tried to call You. Ended up catching the Metatron and they were rather useless, You know. I thought - I thought if I could just _speak_ to You we could get this whole end-of-the-world business seen to. You’d understand. I thought You would, anyway. But You weren’t there.” 

He pats his lap, leaves his hands splayed across the worn fabric of his trousers as he stares at his nails. He’s due for another manicure soon, he thinks, as he tries to ignore the gnawing beast of doubt trying to chew its way out of the nice, pretty cage he’d locked it in. 

“Made me think of the flood. I thought, ‘perhaps this is it again, another wiping, another restarting’. But You’d promised not to do that sort of thing again. I couldn’t figure it out, any of it. There I was, hours away from the end of the world with the very knowledge needed to keep it from happening, and I couldn’t reach You or anyone who c-cared.” His voice breaks and he swallows around the pesky lump in his throat. 

“I was angry, I’m still angry,” he knows it because it has weighed against his chest for months now, an ever-present reminder that he nearly lost _everything_ . “You would have let them destroy it all. All the people, even the _kids_ , and the trees and the animals and the cafes, and my books. All gone, because of some silly conflict that needn’t happen in the first place. I am so angry with You!” 

The last bit comes out as a shout that startles him so much he’s on his feet, scaring away the pigeons picking at the last bits of seed. “You would have allowed me to be pit against _him_.” His voice quakes with the rage he had, until this moment, refused to acknowledge. Aziraphale clenches his fists and barely manages to keep his wings banished to their place slightly adjacent to reality. 

Finally, he glances over at Her. There are tears hot on his face because the mere thought of losing Crowley wrecks him each and every time. He doesn’t want to fight anyone ever again, other than his pesky next-door neighbor who keeps stealing his newspaper. He’d fight him, sure, in a passive-aggressive way, like signing him up for mailers he doesn’t want and sending Mormons to his door whenever possible. 

But that’s besides the point. He takes a steadying breath but it does nothing, his entire body shaking with rage and anguish and all of the terrible things he’s refused to allow bubble to the surface until now. Until he is standing in front of the Almighty wishing he could - well, he’s not sure what he wishes he could do because he’s too flustered. 

“Aziraphale.” His name on Her lips is like Heaven on earth and he can’t help it. It takes the wind out of his sails, brushes away his anger like dirt from a lapel, and he is down on his knees with his forehead against Her lap before anyone can count to two. 

She pets his head, Her touches gentle and warm. It reminds him of what it was like before earth, when they were all a little bit closer, before his friends and siblings rebelled and fell and severed this close connection. Sometimes She’d come and groom their wings, Her face nothing but dazzling light that he loved to bask in, Her fingers just as steady and sure as they are now except instead of rubbing at his scalp they’d be straightening pinions and running through soft down. 

“I’ve missed You,” he admits into a denim-clad thigh. “I thought perhaps You stopped caring. I could still feel You, of course, the power of Your grace and light fueling me. Always connected, but not exactly _there_.” 

_I thought You abandoned us, abandoned me_ he thinks but doesn’t say because it is too tender a thing to admit, like exposing a fresh wound to salt water. 

“Never, Aziraphale.” She answers his unsaid words and he winces, curls his fingers in the leg of Her trousers. “I’ve never left.” 

“Then why?” Why didn’t She stop the Antichrist earlier? Why didn’t She step when he cried out to Her? Why didn’t She stop Gabriel from calling forth hellfire that Crowley gladly took, or Michael from pouring holy water into a bathtub for Aziraphale to get into? Why didn’t She come and handle all Her created beings as was Her _responsibility_? All of these questions swirl in his mind, coming together to form thunderheads that threaten an oncoming storm. 

From above, rain begins to patter lightly against heated pavement and Aziraphale’s curved back as he remains on his knees in front of the Almighty. 

“I wish I could answer all the whys in the world, Aziraphale,” She answers. He glances up at Her, finally, and notices that Her head is tilted back, eyes closed, allowing the rain to hit her face. 

“Ineffable, then,” Aziraphale says. She laughs and he swears the grass grows and reaches desperately for Her, the trees thickening around their base, branches reaching for the sky at the musical sound of Her joy. He shivers, from the rain and the laughter, shifting closer, wishing he could be at peace and one with the Almighty again. 

He _loves_ her, he realizes then. Despite everything there’s a pressure just behind his heart that makes it beat for Her. Something that has always been there and always will be there, in the anger and confusion and sorrow. 

“I love you, Aziraphale,” She says, standing and pulling him back up to his feet as the rain falls around them. She cups his cheek, wipes away tears and raindrops from beneath his eyes, then leans forward and kisses his nose. “You are good. That’s really what I came to say, to remind you of that. I’ve seen your doubts, your pain, and I couldn’t have it. Not when you are so delightfully…” She searches for the word, eyes lighting up the moment She finds it, “ _you_.” 

“And Gabriel? The others? Do they not want me destroyed for that very same thing?” His fear shivers like a man in the cold. 

“They need an attitude adjustment,” She admits, gazing into his eyes, Her own molten gold and somehow always changing. Shifting. Dancing. The Almighty brushes Her fingers through his hair, pushing damp curls out of his face, and presses their foreheads together. “You are mine, Aziraphale, guardian of the eastern gate. Now and always, and I love you.” 

He’s about to ask Her something else, anything to keep Her close, but with a final kiss to his forehead She is gone. Aziraphale stands alone in the park, the rain passing, blue skies breaking through the clouds. 

As the gravity of the whole thing finally begins to ease, his mind flutters to his poor groceries. He reaches for them expecting soggy bread and waterlogged herbs to find them all completely untouched, as if it hadn’t rained at all. It makes him smile, he can’t help it, and hugs his groceries to his chest as he thinks about the Almighty for a brief second more. 

Then he leaves, to the cafe first where the barista makes a comment about getting caught in the rain and Aziraphale wants to say _you have no idea_ and admits it is an apt metaphor for how he feels (which is likely why he’s not miracled away the wet). Coffee in hand, he makes his way merrily to the bookshop, because after a visit from the Almighty like _that_ there’s nothing to be but merry. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale calls out to him, wiping his feet on the mat just inside the door. He sighs when there’s no one to greet him. The lazy old thing is probably still curled up in the warm spot Aziraphale left in bed. It doesn’t deter him though as he climbs the stairs and leaves the groceries in the kitchen before heading for the bedroom. 

He pauses at the door for a moment to smile at the sleeping demon, curled around Aziraphale’s favorite pillow, face buried in it, no doubt drooling on it which is obnoxious but fixed with a minor miracle. Setting the coffee carefully on the nightstand he sits on the edge of the bed and reaches out to run a hand through Crowley’s hair. It reminds him of Her hand running through his and he shivers. 

“Y’cold,” Crowley mumbles, despite pressing up into the touch as his eyebrows peek over the pillow. 

“And you’re having quite the lie-in, my dear. I’ve been gone for hours.” 

“I could sleep for a century,” Crowley grumbles, dislodging himself from Aziraphale’s petting hand in order to sit up. He’s shirtless, neck and collarbone delightfully littered with lovebites that make Aziraphale smile. _His_ demon, he thinks again with wonder. Crowley scowls and hugs the pillow to his bare chest, eyes narrowing at Aziraphale for a moment before he’s momentarily distracted by the coffee on the nightstand. 

“Oh.” He reaches for it, snaps it up and holds it close. “Lovely. Why’re you wet?” 

“I was thinking,” Aziraphale ignores the question, “we should put an offer down on the cottage.” 

“Probably bought already, we’ve been dragging our feet.” 

“I know you’ve been keeping the listing open, Crowley.” Aziraphale huffs, “reports of ghosts, strange demonic presences, you’ve frightened off every potential buyer.” 

“Have I?” Crowley appears to consider this as he takes a long sip of his coffee, “sounds like me, I suppose. No proof, though. Convenient for us if you’re serious.” Aziraphale notices the way Crowley holds his shoulders tense, bent forward over the warmth of his coffee, eyes glancing just slightly to the left of Aziraphale. 

He’s nervous. Uncertain. That forked tongue of his creeps out to taste the air out of habit. 

“Of course I’m serious.” 

“What about all that stuff about managing the bookshop long distance?” 

“The internet has made that more than possible, and we know I don’t sell all that many anyway,” Aziraphale sniffs. 

Crowley’s eyes narrow again, the coffee no longer buffering Aziraphale from suspicion. The demon was always the inquisitive type. “And having to run out on business? Not wanting to settle because you never know when Up There might ask you to move to Antarctica to proselytize to the penguins?” 

“I believe I said Greenland, and nothing about penguins,” Aziraphale shakes his head. “I’m not really worried about what Up There wants anymore.” 

He realizes he’s said the wrong thing when Crowley’s eyes widen a fraction and his lips curve downward. “Aziraphale, have you-” 

“No, no,” he interjects immediately, waving his hands to try and bat away that thread of the conversation. “Certainly not. I just mean, what comes will come and I trust that, well. Things will be alright.” 

“Things will be alright,” Crowley echoes as if someone has just told him Hell had decided to remodel headquarters and planned to open up a series of flower shops in lieu of office space. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Crowley pokes him, “is this a joke? Hastur, are you taking the piss out of me?” 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale whacks him and Crowley defensively curls his arm to protect his coffee. 

“No, that’s really you,” he decides, “don’t think Hastur could reach that octave.” 

“You’re a terror and I’m now reconsidering the offer of a cottage,” Aziraphale replies tartly. 

Crowley returns to sipping his coffee, staring at Aziraphale as if he’s trying to decipher something in a language that he took classes for about five years back but has mostly forgotten. “You’ll move with me, then? Settle with me?” 

“I feel we’ve already gotten the settling part down, dear boy. I don’t see why we shouldn’t take it somewhere a bit more steady. Permanent. All that.” 

“Why the change of heart, angel? Not that I’m complaining.” But he’s suspicious - no, curious - as always. How is Aziraphale supposed to tell Crowley that the Almighty Herself came down from Above to tell him She still loved him? 

Something must show on his face because Crowley’s expression softens and he sets his coffee aside and reaches out to pull Aziraphale in. “What is it?” 

Aziraphale lets him tumble them both back onto the bed, into the blankets. He sprawls on top of Crowley who keeps his arms firmly around his waist in a way that says _I’m here_ and _don’t leave_ and Aziraphale melts into it. He starts to talk, his voice filling the room as Crowley is silent and attentive and listens to the retelling of Aziraphale’s Very Interesting Morning. 

After the story ends they lay together in the quiet and Crowley strokes Aziraphale’s hair while Aziraphale does his best impression of a shy child, face tucked into the place where Crowley’s neck meets his shoulder. There are warring emotions. Guilt, and joy, both scuttling about across the sands of his mind, snapping their pincers. 

“Suppose I ought to call the estate agent.” Crowley says, finally, not the response Aziraphale expected necessarily but an appropriate response nonetheless. 

“I suppose you ought,” Aziraphale agrees, and smiles. 

**

Months later they’ve started to settle in their little cottage not far from the sea. Aziraphale is still fussing over his library, miracling some books in and others away, constantly wishing he had more space only to have the house shift and obey his whims. Crowley can’t judge, he supposes, considering his own cross to bear: badgering plants left alone far too long, whose egos need a bit of trimming. 

“You think you’ve survived this long without intervention and you’re doing just fine, eh? Well then what’s _this_ ,” he shouts at the hedges, pointing to a spot of dying leaves. “You think you’re going to survive the winter? Best get on being better, then, or else come spring I’ll rip you out by the roots and leave you in the compost.” 

It is slow progress, but now the leaves tremble ever-so-slightly whenever he walks by and the brown patch is looking much better. 

The greatest asset of the cottage for Crowley is the proximity to the sea. Something about the consistency of tides, roar of waves, and the promise of life beneath sits well with him as he trails along the beach looking for treasures. It is cold, autumn having set in quite heavily, but despite the lingering mists and stiff salty breeze he’s content to comb through the sand. 

_The ocean reminds me of You_ , he thinks as he scoops up a particularly handsome stone. It is smooth, dark and sparkling. He pockets it. _I know I’m not supposed to really be thinking of You_ his train of thought meanders, turning into spoken words as it so often does when he’s alone and the sound of the waves drowns out his conversation with God. 

“I’ve never really stopped, though.” Even after She didn’t answer his prayer on the eve of the apocalypse. See, Crowley might have had his physical, ethereal connection to Her shredded to tiny little pieces during his plunge into boiling sulfur, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t reach for Her like humans do. They’re as disconnected as he is, but they still manage to get a prayer or two in, why shouldn’t a demon try? 

Well, alright, there’s a lot of reasons why a demon shouldn’t try. The first being they’re a _demon_. But Crowley’s never been one for rules, or following them, which might be part of the problem. 

“Ineffable plan and all that, you know?” He says to the overcast sky, “can’t help but wonder if it was always supposed to turn out this way, or if you really value free will that highly.” His, Aziraphale’s, the free will of a human-raised Antichrist who chose his friends and his earthly parents over his destiny. Really, who could have seen that coming? 

Maybe She had, or maybe She’d been hands-off for so long She was just waiting to see what might happen when a bunch of beings with free will were faced with the End. As he loses himself in thought he notices from the corner of his eye something shiny sticking out from the sand. Walking over he reaches down at the same time a dark hand does and nearly knocks heads with them. 

“Oof, close call there,” he begins and lets the prize go, standing to look at whoever it was he nearly collided with. He freezes when a pair of liquid gold eyes meet his and She smiles at him. 

It is the Fall all over again, really. His stomach plummets out from beneath him and he’s dizzy with fear and anxiety. He’s hot despite the breeze off the sea and wants to crawl out of his clothes, out of his skin, and escape the flames. Crowley takes a few shaking steps back on the sand and then loses his balance, falling straight back onto his arse. 

Her grace burns him, She’s so close, and his eyes water from the brightness of Her. How does the Almighty manage to cram everything She is into this corporeal form? She’s beautiful and terrifying and he’s choking on a sob before he can stop himself and reign his wild emotions back in. 

“Crowley.” His entire body shivers in response to the way She says his name. There’s power in it, She _knows_ him, more than Aziraphale does, or anyone in Hell, or anything in existence. His name on Her lips burrows deep into his chest cavity and purchases real estate which it proceeds to remodel before settling down to start a family. That is to say, he’s not sure what to make of any of it as everything threatens to shake out of his human form. 

_Have mercy_ , the dark, feral part of his mind screams as he’s faced with The Ultimate Divine Presence, the very same one that propelled him into a free fall right out of the only home he’d ever known. _Extend me grace, please_. The words don’t make it out of his mouth because he’s too busy curling in on himself, terrified of the holy light She radiates. 

It is going to burn him, destroy him, it’ll be worse than holy water. 

A hand alights on his head and rests there, heavy and kind. His anxiety recedes like the outgoing tide. He breathes deeply, despite not needing to, because it feels good to do it. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers and he’s apologizing for everything. For asking questions, for Falling, for tempting, for changing every newspaper Aziraphale’s neighbor steals into a UFO magazine before he gets a chance to read it. Alright, perhaps he’s less apologetic about the last one.

“Oh Crowley, hush.” She says it kindly, with a bit of a push behind it that encourages him to calm. When he finally uncurls he finds Her on Her knees in the sand in front of him, dressed in the softest blue sweater and faded jeans, skin dark and eyes shining bright against it. Her hand touches his cheek, fingertips brush his jaw, and She smiles ever-so-gently, like She’s dealing with a frightened child, and honestly She’s not terribly off on that count. 

Crowley reaches up and places his hand over Hers on his cheek and leans into it, eyes closing. He didn’t bother wearing his sunglasses and he’s suddenly glad for it. He doesn’t want to hide from Her. 

“You know,” She says with amusement in Her voice, “you talk to me a lot more than Aziraphale does.” 

“He doesn’t need to talk to You,” Crowley whispers, turning his head to brush his nose against Her warm palm, “he can feel You.” He leaves the _I can’t_ unspoken. She knows. It was Her design, anyway. She probably also knows that he _misses_ Her, that there’s a yawning dark hole right in the middle of him where She used to be and he’s never been the same. 

If he thinks about it, though, that yawning hole is temporarily gone. His brow crinkles in surprise when he realizes it and he hears Her huff out an indignant little noise. A very _human_ noise. 

“Aziraphale told me about your conversation.” Crowley knows it is awkward to talk with his face pressed against Her hand but he doesn’t want to be anywhere else. “Suppose I should thank You, he finally agreed to move in with me proper.” 

“He makes his own choices,” She replies, Her thumb stroking along the bridge of his nose thoughtfully, “I’m glad he made the right one.” 

It is Crowley’s turn to huff. “Shouldn’t You be upset about it? An Angel and a Demon shacking up together? It is against the natural order of things, isn’t it?” 

“The rules you all come up with are so interesting. You love each other, and that’s the only rule I really care about. The universe still struggles with that particular memo.” She pauses, “Crowley, My hand is getting a bit tired like this. Come, there’s a lovely piece of driftwood over there perfect for sitting.” 

If he makes a noise that sounds an awful lot like a whine, well, he hopes She won’t hold it against him. He’s been without Her for so long that he fears letting go means losing Her again. But he does, because She pulls Her hand gently away from him and stands, holding it out again. 

“Come on now, you silly serpent. Up.” 

He takes Her hand without another thought and is easily hauled up to his feet. She doesn’t let go and leads him over to the aforementioned log. They sit, She continues to hold his hand, their joined hands resting on Her knee. 

“Earlier you were saying the ocean reminds you of Me. Tell Me more.” She looks at him briefly then glances back out to the sea. 

He leans so his shoulder rests against Hers, desperate for the warmth and the light that had sent him scrambling in fear earlier. In this moment he is every bit a serpent, yearning for heat and comfort. 

“It is unpredictable, the sea. Moody.” He half glances at her. 

God giggles. “Go on, then.” 

“All powerful, but gentle, too. When it is warmer I like to wade out into the shallow waves and let them lap at my ankles. It is comforting, beautiful, soothing, all that nonsense,” he waves his hand dismissively. “But just like that a wave can bowl you over, take you out to sea, drag you under. The sea does as she pleases and on the one hand brings so much joy into the world, but on the other can instill fear and trepidation. Yet men and women scorned by the sea go back out on her every day. There’s something about her that draws them back in, that is worth being connected to.” 

He trails off, glances shyly down at the sand. “The moon was my idea, do you remember? I helped sketch out its shape, shaded in the craters, decided to situate it so it would reflect light. It bumps up against the sea in its own invisible way, not really controlling as much as interacting, far away but close all the same. So I suppose when I’m out here I feel as close to You as I’m allowed to get. Like the moon and the sea.” 

She squeezes his hand and leans over to press Her lips to his cheek. Then, the Almighty rests Her head on his shoulder.

“Can I stay with you for a while longer, Crowley?” She asks and he thinks it is such a strange question. She’s God, She can do whatever She damn well pleases. But something in him softens at the question and he leans his head against Hers. 

“As long as you’d like” is what he says, but what he means is _stay forever and never leave me again_. 

Aziraphale comes looking for him sooner rather than later, and when his stumbling, cream-clad form appears through the mist Crowley is alone on the log. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale calls out as he gets closer, the jacket he’s wearing is buffeted by the wind and he nearly falls over. Finally, he reaches the log and launches himself onto it, sitting in the very same spot She had sat moments before. 

“Are you alright, my love?” Aziraphale asks as he reaches out to carefully wipe away the tears on Crowley’s cheeks. “Come here, dear, you’re freezing.” He wraps an arm around Crowley’s waist and pulls him into his side. Crowley goes willingly and buries his nose into Aziraphale’s tousled hair. He smells as he always does, of soap and old books and a little like a storm in the distance. 

“Shall we go home? I can make us some tea, do up a plate of nibbles.” He runs his hand up and down Crowley’s arm in an attempt to warm him and it is nice. “Do you want to talk about it?” 

“No.” Not yet, anyway. He’s still reeling from the lack of Her presence, his mind replaying their conversation over and over again. There aren’t words to describe the strange contentment that’s settled into his corporeal form’s bones, or the fact that the black hole in his chest seems a lot less monstrous.

“Come now,” Aziraphale says, “I’m going to freeze if we stay out here much longer.” 

Crowley could point out any number of things, such as the fact Aziraphale doesn’t have to freeze if he doesn’t wish to, or that either of them could miracle their way immediately back to the cottage, but he doesn’t. Instead he stands and offers Aziraphale his hand, lacing their fingers together as they begin their trek back through the sand. 

Their home is set inland a bit from the steep trail they take to the beach, so Crowley quietly shares the treasures he uncovered on the beach, the rocks and shells and a few pieces of sea glass, and Aziraphale listens. 

**

Perched in a tree not far from their cottage is a young woman dressed in a soft blue sweater, bare feet sandy and dangling down from the tree. She watches them and smiles to Herself, sitting up just a little bit straighter as they pass in the distance toward the warm glow of the cottage. 

“It is good,” God says, then the wind blows and She’s gone. 

**Author's Note:**

> Crowley collecting treasures is a reference to [irisbleufic's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic) amazing [Crown of Thorns [The Walls, the Wainscot, and the Mouse] 'Verse.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/728117/chapters/1351926) Please go read it if you haven't already.
> 
> You can find me on Tumblr at [Waffleironbiddingwar](https://waffleironbiddingwar.tumblr.com) if you'd like to chat.


End file.
